Coming Morn

Upon the ink my needle is spun, upon a white virgin crest,
Spun from heart and tattered cuff,
And cast from naked chest.

 

From the rubble, the hellish struggle, I feel a turning tide,
All the while, comforts the smile,
My burning ember bride.

 

The tunnel is long and you would pot holes to stray,
And though the light be as needle prick,
It only seems so far away.

 

Use your meditation, by take of whatever form,
Use it to stand-fast,
Hold strong against the storm.

 

So with pen and page, and sight no longer forlorn,
I say goodnight to the dark,
Hello the coming morn.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Bluest Moon Rare

While scratching cat claws at singing bell
I write these gentle words,
I have gentle
Most gentle words to tell.

With crows feet eyes, under my patch of bluest skies,
Bird branch trees, choired in threes,
Sing against
Singing sails breeze.

In this burning olive sun
I write these perfectly imperfect words of impractical scrawl,
With no cast of doubt
No shadows crawl.

Seas of scented coloured air
Fill my mind with grateful tear eyed thanks,
While my 
feet are warmed, warmed on darkened planks.

I have a thing of bluest moon rare,
I am deeply loved
A gift of once diamond found,
Is to be held and cherished
On this most thankful ground.

And I will love her until my mortal days have faded
And my crown of greys are bound,
A love like ours is forever
Forever till dust and ground.








Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.